Author's Notes: This is an old fic I started working on ages ago that I suspected Season 4 would derail entirely. So I've decided to break it up into shorter stories and one-shots, and this one will be just a non-canon version of events. I'm thinking it'll maybe be three or four chapters long.

If you like what you see, reviews and polite feedback is always appreciated and I'll see you in the next chapter.

I do not own this series.

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Chapter 1: Spark

"I think I'm carrying your child, Belmont."

Sypha's tone is quiet and attentive. The beer pauses halfway to his lips and he meets the unreadable eyes of the young woman seated across from him. Both hands clasped around a cup of water, her expression lies somewhere in the realm of what Trevor takes to be hopeful optimism and perhaps some degree of reproach as though this development is his fault entirely. Heedless of the unexpected tension between them, the inn's common room continues as before, a medley of indistinct chatter, punctuated here and there with curses, barks of laughter, and calls for more ale. The latter of these reminds the hunter of his own half-empty flagon and he slowly takes another drink, the alcohol burning all the way down.

The Speaker's breath hitches a fraction and the look in her blue eyes shifts into undisguised dread. Shit. Trevor fidgets uncomfortably when it occurs to him he hasn't spoken. He swallows the beer, painfully, and coughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're serious?"

Her head dips in a cursory nod and her hands retreat under the table. "It's been almost two months since I bled last, and I've been sick almost every day for a fortnight."

He has noticed his partner has been veritably fleeing the wagon these past few days, and on one such occasion when he'd followed after to make sure she was okay, he came across her emptying the contents of her stomach into a discreet bush a stone's throw from their campsite. Part of him had considered seeking out a local apothecary if this ailment persisted much longer, but now…the very idea of the alternative invokes a slew of thoughts and emotions in him: apprehension, joy, panic, warmth, yearning, and then sickness, rage, and frustration when he remembers the dead children of Lindenfeld. Their failure, the desolation they left behind. In the silence between them, Trevor drains the flagon, then brings it down with a quiet thud. "You're serious?" he repeats.

This time, Sypha smiles the way she used to before the massacre at the Priory. "Yes."

Christ, she's pregnant. The weight of this disclosure hits him and he presses his hand to his mouth, taking a deep breath, and then waves the innkeeper over. Blindly, he fumbles for his bag of coins and when his hands meet nothing, he checks the other side of his belt, then a pocket, and then he resorts to patting down his shirt. He doesn't have it. Shit, did a thief take it? When and how long ago? Then he hears the metallic clink of coins landing on the table and looks up to find Sypha with the bag in her hands as she counts out their money. Hazily, he remembers her confiscating it at the start of the night, managing their meager funds with all the shrewdness of an old fishwife.

The taciturn innkeeper, when he approaches their table, asks if they want anything else, but Trevor shakes his head and rises. Sypha pays the man, finishes her cup of water in two quick gulps, then hurries after him as he stumbles his way outside. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere more private," he mumbles as the cold air of the evening hits him in the face and he takes stock of his sobriety. How much did Sypha and her cast-iron grip on their allowance let him drink? A pint or so? Fuck, is he even walking in a straight line? He hasn't run into anything yet and Sypha hasn't grabbed his arm to steady him. He checks his hand. Five fingers and only that. He's been worse."

Overhead, the inn's heavy, wooden sign creaks on rusted chains as they duck into the stable, Sypha's wool cloak snapping with every gust of wind. Trevor glances around the outbuilding's gloomy interior, frowning at shadows, listening for a breath or a scuffle, even a faint heartbeat, any sign of life to show they are not alone. When he's met with nothing but silence and the judgmental snort of a nearby mare, he turns to the Speaker woman and asks again, "You're serious?"

"I'm sorry," he hears her whisper and the dark silhouette of her head bows. "I should have told you sooner, but I wanted to be sure."

"And…are you sure, Sypha?"

"As sure as I'll ever be. I mean…I don't know, but this…this 'sickness' has lasted too long, and it hasn't gotten better or worse. I don't know what else it could be."

"How long then?"

Sypha pauses, then shakes her head. "I started to suspect in Lindenfeld, and I thought I would tell you then, but…"

News for a victory that never came, and after what they saw, after what they learned of the Judge and his 'little pleasures,' he understands why she chose to keep her condition to herself for so long afterward. He steps forward and pulls her into a crushing embrace, feels her thin torso expand with a startled gasp, and his lips pull back in an unfamiliar smile. "But you're serious?" he asks a fourth time. He needs to hear it again. Just to be sure. All these years he's been the last of his line…his family…

"Yes, I'm serious!" she laughs, actually laughs, and she kisses him.

He wants to tell her how much he loves her, this vehement woman who fell into his life not even a year ago, but as usual, the words refuse to form. In the dark, their brows touch and he breathes in her warm scent, like pepper and woodsmoke. "Jesus, Sypha, I can't even think straight."

"I know. I can't either."

But you're serious. He kisses her as gingerly as if she were made of glass, and his hand slips to her stomach, still flat and unchanged beneath her tunic. "Are you afraid?"

"Of what? Giving birth? Or course I am, silly." He can't see her face, but he can sense the good-natured scowl she reserves for when he's said something stupid. "But I'm happy. It's been so long since my people have had a baby in our caravan. Who would've thought the next would be mine?"

"Mine?" Trevor smiles and raises an eyebrow. "Taking all the credit again, are you?"

"I'll be the one carrying her for the better part of this year," she laughs as she tucks her head into the hollow of his neck. "And I'll be the one pushing her out of me. What did you do, Belmont?"

"Hm, enjoyed it."

With an affected gasp of indignation, the young woman smacks his shoulder. "You're such an ass."

"Her, though?"

"Yes." She grins against his collar. "She'll definitely be a girl. I don't think I can handle more than one of you."

He contemplates the idea of a daughter who looks like her mother, or maybe his. Try as he may, though, Trevor can't remember what Isabel Belmont looked like. Surely she's there somewhere, he thinks, tucked away in some forgotten corner of memory that hasn't yet been fogged by time or beer, but all he recalls is her dark hair and the charcoal dress that swept after her in the halls of their ancestral home. Her hunched shoulders as she knelt in prayer at her prie-dieu, rosary in hand, lips moving in silence. But of her voice or her face, nothing.

"Trevor?" Sypha asks as an unexpected shudder of grief sweeps over him.

"It's fine." Slowly, he pulls away and grips her hands. Her fingers are cold. "D'you want to marry, Sypha?"

"What?" He pictures her scrunching her forehead in confusion, and he doesn't blame her. They've been lovers for some time now, and rutting in sin never troubled him before. It doesn't trouble him now, and Speakers don't even practice marriage. "I mean, should we?" she asks, bewildered.

"If you'll have me. I know it's not your people's way." Besides, he is an excommunicate; what need or even right, according to the Church, does he have to marriage. He expects her to say no or, at the very least, ask how much he's had to drink tonight or if he's an idiot. "Sorry," he murmurs. "I didn't mean—"

"No, I will," she cuts him off, squeezing his hands. "I will if it's that important to you. Is it important, love?"

Yes. He nods, surprising himself. It's a small thing, a sentiment really, and yet he finds the matter more important than he would have imagined. His parents were married and their parents and their parents' parents. He's been named a vagrant and an exile in the eyes of the Church and Sypha is a heretic. Their child, boy or girl, deserves more than to be named a bastard by cruel people. "Understand you don't need to do this. I don't…you don't have to."

"It's all right." Sypha lays her hand on his cheek, her thumb laying parallel with his scar. "Speakers don't marry, true, but we do take partners for life when it suits us. That doesn't seem all that different from marriage. This is my choice. No one makes it for me."